Day 28 of StoryADay September.
Write a story with a character who has a difficult decision to make. Put this character in the setting you observed and use your sensory detail in the story.
I step out of the gas station into the midnight dark, silvered moonlight filtering through the trees and splashing onto my skin. I shiver, the air cold against my wet skin.
I start to walk away, no idea where I am going. No idea where I am. I lose my balance and start to fall, catching myself against the trashcan. I look down at my feet. One black stiletto heel, one foot bare. I kick off the shoe.
A wave of sour milk, rotten fish, stale coffee washes over me. I lift arm, sniffing myself. The stench isn’t me, but I don’t smell right. I smell like iron. I look at my other arm, the hand at the end still braced against the trashcan. I push away from the smell and shuffle out into the empty parking lot.
The asphalt is cold and rough against my bare feet. I ignore the bite of small rocks, focused on reaching the street. At the sidewalk, I stop, look left, then right. Which way? Where should I go?
I close my eyes, trying to remember how I got here. I remember sliding a short purple strapless dress over my head. My hands move, sliding over my arms and stomach. Instead of smooth and silky, the dress and I feel sticky. I open my eyes, looking down. I am wearing a short dress, but the moonlight obscures the color. I see sprays and splotches of glistening liquid everywhere I look. I am covered in sticky goo.
I pull my mind back to the bigger issue. Where to go? I hear cars, a highway, so I turn to the left and start walking. The wind gusts, swirling crinkly leaves around my feet and raising goosebumps on my exposed skin. I cur in, wrapping my arms around my torso, picking up the pace of my stumbling shuffle to almost a run.
I don’t see the dog until after I crash into it and tumble to the sidewalk. The dog darts a few steps away, then turns back, sidling up to me. I scramble back, scooting on my butt, hands, and heels as the dog creeps closer. He is sniffing, his lips curled back, exposing sharp white teeth. He is close enough to bite, but instead I feel his tongue slide along my shin. His eyes meet mine as he pulls away, then moves in closer, lapping at my leg.
I sit. I let the dog clean my legs and arms, pretending that I don’t know what he is licking away. What is smeared across my skin.
I push the dog away and clamber to my feet, turning to the sound of car tires buzzing on the pavement. I run. The dog follows.